Copper Canyon Killers

by J. R. Roberts

  “Have you seen a drummer in town?” Clint asked.

  “Seen lots of drummers in town,” Randy said.

  “This one’s got a pretty woman with him,” Clint said, “smells kind of sweet.”

  “She does? I ain’t had a sweet-smellin’ woman in here in a while. All these girls wear cheap stuff.”

  “No, not the woman,” Clint said. “The man smells sweet.”

  “Oh? Well, I sure ain’t seen a sweet-smellin’ man in here . . . ever!”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Beer?”

  “No, I’ve got to find these people.”

  “Check the dress shops and hat shops and such for the girl,” Randy suggested.

  “Good point,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  He left the saloon and walked to Beth Collins’s store. Inside he found himself buffeted on all sides by women. He inhaled, though, and found none of them particularly sweet smelling.

  “Clint!” Beth waved from behind the counter, then pointed toward the back of the store.

  “Don’t you need to be behind the counter?” he asked when they met at the back.

  “I have help today,” she said. “In fact, I’ve been trying to close for the past half hour, but I’ve been too busy. What brings you here?”

  He told her who he was looking for, asked if she’d seen either of them in his store.

  “I might have,” she said. “A couple did come in—wait, he was carrying a drummer’s case. And he smelled kind of sweet.”

  “When was that?”

  “A couple of hours ago, I guess.”

  “Did you hear them say anything to each other about where they were going?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “And why were they here?”

  “She bought some buttons.”

  “Buttons?”

  She nodded.

  “That was it?”

  “I’m afraid so. Who are they?” Then her eyes went wide and she covered her mouth with both hands. “You think they’re the ones who killed my father?”

  “I don’t know, Beth,” he said. “Right now the sheriff and I are just trying to find them to ask them a few questions.”

  “Oh my God . . .”

  He took her by the shoulders and said, “Just go back to work. I’ll talk to you later. Will you be home?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m just going to make myself a small dinner. There will be enough for two, if you like.”

  “That would be great,” Clint said. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in some time.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll expect you.”

  “What time?”

  “Come by when you can,” she said. “I’ll keep it hot.”

  “All right,” he said.

  He turned to leave but she reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

  “Be careful,” she said. “If they are the killers—just be very careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” he said.

  He left and she waded back in among her customers.

  * * *

  “Why ain’t we out followin’ Clint Adams?” Tony Black asked Stephanie.

  Stephanie stared at him. Andy was in the kitchen with his mother for some reason.

  “Tony, this is the Gunsmith we’re talkin’ about,” she said. “Don’t you think he’d know if he was bein’ followed?”

  “I guess.”

  “We’ll get our chance.”

  “Not sittin’ here, we won’t,” he complained. “I’ve had enough coffee to last me a month.”

  “Mary’s coffee is the best in town,” she said. “Don’t let her hear you complainin’.”

  “Ah—” he started, but Andy returned, carrying a basket full of buns his mom had just finished making. While her food was only fair, her baking was the best in town.

  “Dig in!” Andy said.

  Tony took one and absently nibbled on it.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s gettin’ impatient.”

  “Relax, Tony,” Andy said. “Steph always picks the right time.”

  “You tell him, Andy.”

  Andy beamed. He enjoyed any praise he could get from Stephanie Kitten.

  “Yeah, yeah . . .” Tony said.

  “In fact, you boys enjoy the buns,” she said, standing. “I’m just gonna check around town a bit. And I wanna find that drummer.”

  “What for?” Andy asked.

  “I wanna buy some more of his soap,” she said. “I really like it.”

  She held her hand out and Andy sniffed it.

  “Sure smells sweet,” he said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Clint continued to comb his part of town for the drummer and his lady. It was getting dark and he was about to quit and go back to the jail to see if the sheriff had had any luck when he saw a group of women assembled.

  He moved to the back of the assembly until he could see what they were interested in. The drummer had set his case up on a stand and had opened it. His assistant, a pretty woman, was passing out samples to the women.

  And there was a sweet, sweet scent in the air.

  “Here you go, ladies,” the drummer said. “Sniff what my assistant is giving you. Those are samples, but the real thing ain’t expensive at all. What’s it worth to you to smell sweet?”

  Clint allowed the man to finish making his pitch, then whatever sales he could, and then the women dispersed. One woman, however, didn’t go far.

  “What about you, sir?” the drummer asked. “Didn’t see you back there. Would you like to buy some for your lady friend?”

  “Afraid not,” Clint said. “Is your name Henry Wilkins?”

  “Why, yes it is.”

  “And you’re Amanda Kyle?”

  “I am,” the pretty girl said. She and Wilkins exchanged curious glances.

  “Well, I’ll need you both to come with me to the sheriff’s office.”

  “What for?” Wilkins asked.

  “The sheriff would like to talk to you.”

  Wilkins frowned.

  “Are you a deputy?”

  “I’m not,” Clint said. “I’m just trying to help the sheriff with something.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Kyle said.

  “What’s this about?” Wilkins asked.

  “Murder,” Clint said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t put your hand in that case, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “What?” the drummer asked again, looking astonished. He pulled his hand out of the case. “You think I have a gun in there?”

  “I don’t know what you have in there,” Clint said with his hand hovering above his gun. “It would just be smart for you to keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Soap!” Wilkins asked.

  “What?”

  “I sell soap,” Wilkins said. “The case is filled with soap. Sweet-smelling soap.”

  Which would explain why the air was so sweet smelling.

  “All right,” Clint said, “let’s close the case and take a walk to the sheriff’s office, shall we?”

  * * *

  Stephanie Kitten stood off to one side, holding the three bars of soap she had just bought from the drummer. She watched Clint Adams walk the man and woman away, taking them to the sheriff’s office, and she thought she knew what he was thinking.

  He thought the drummer and his gal had killed Ed Collins. She had to admit, hiding behind the guise of a drummer would be a good idea for a hired killer. Only she happened to know that wasn’t the case.

  Once Adams got them to the sheriff’s office and he and Sheriff Brown questioned them, they’d realize they’d made a mistake. And they’d be real frustrated.

  Stephanie waite
d until they were out of sight, then turned and headed back to Mary Choate’s café.

  * * *

  “This is preposterous,” Henry Wilkins said as they entered the sheriff’s office.

  “Just keep walking,” Clint said.

  “You found ’em,” Brown said, getting up from his desk. Ott was standing by the stove with a cup of coffee.

  “I did,” Clint said. “Sheriff, this is Amanda Kyle, and this is Henry Wilkins. Mr. Wilkins is a drummer. He sells . . . soap.”

  “Soap?”

  “That’s right.”

  Brown sniffed the air and said, “That must be why he smells so sweet.”

  “That’s not me,” Wilkins said. “It’s the soap you smell. People often make that mistake.”

  “Have a seat, folks,” Brown said. “Mr. Adams and I are going to slip out to have a talk, but my deputy will be right here.”

  They both turned to look at Ott.

  “Don’t let them leave, Kenny,” Brown said.

  “No sir.”

  “Clint?”

  Clint accompanied the sheriff into the cell block.

  “What’s going on?” Jason asked.

  “In a minute, son,” Brown said. He looked at Clint. “Soap?”

  “I know,” Clint said. “If he’s been selling it around town—”

  “A lot of folks could be smelling sweet,” Brown finished for him.

  “A lot of women,” Clint said.

  “So we’re still looking for a woman,” Sheriff Brown said, “just maybe not this one.”

  “Maybe not,” Clint said. “Let’s talk to them, but I’m inclined to believe I may have made a mistake.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” Brown said. “Let’s see what they have to say for themselves first.”

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  They went back into the office.

  * * *

  After twenty minutes of questioning the couple, Sheriff Brown was inclined to agree with Clint Adams. These folks were not hired killers disguised as drummers.

  “Can we go now?” Wilkins demanded. He started to get braver as he realized what was happening.

  “In a minute,” Clint said. He signaled to Brown to join him in the cell block.

  “What?” Brown asked. “We’ve got to let them go.”

  “I know,” Clint said, “but first let’s find out how many different kinds of soap they’ve got.”

  “You wanna buy soap?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but I want Jason to smell them and see if he can pick out the one he smelled in the store.”

  Brown rubbed his jaw.

  “Okay,” he said, “identifying that scent might come in handy.”

  Clint nodded and they went back into the office.

  “Mr. Wilkins,” Brown asked, “how many different soap smells do you have in that case?”

  “We sell six distinctly different scents,” the drummer said, drawing himself up proudly.

  “I see.” Brown and Clint exchanged a glance. It could have been worse.

  “Sir,” Brown said, “there’s something we’d like to do before we let you and your assistant go—with our apologies, of course.”

  Suspiciously, Wilkins asked. “And what’s that?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Armed with six bars of soap, Clint reentered the cell block.

  “What’s happening?” Jason asked, starting to rise.

  “Stay where you are, Jason,” Clint said. He put five of the bars of soap down on the floor, away from the cell.

  “Whataya got?”

  “I’ve got some bars of soap,” Clint told him. “I want you to smell each one, and tell me which one you smelled in Mr. Collins’s store—if any.”

  “But why?”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  “Okay, Mr. Adams.”

  “All right, come to the front of the cell.”

  Jason did as he was told.

  “I’ll hold it, and you smell it.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint held the first bar of soap up, and Jason sniffed at it.

  “Anything?” Clint asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint walked to the little pile of soap bars he’d left on the floor, put the first one down, picked up a second, and walked back to the cell door.

  “Smell this one.”

  Jason did, and said, “No.”

  Clint repeated the routine with a third and a fourth bar of soap, only to have Jason shake his head two more times. Clint was starting to think this exercise was going to be fruitless when he took the fifth bar of soap over to the boy.

  When Jason sniffed that fifth bar, he said, “That’s it. That’s what I smelled.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Smell it again.”

  Jason did, and he nodded his head vigorously.

  “That’s it.”

  Clint looked down at the bar of soap in his hand.

  “Okay, kid,” Clint said. “Sit back and relax.”

  Clint picked up the soaps and carried them out with him. He put five of them back into the drummer’s case.

  “This is the one,” Clint said, holding up the bar of soap in a pale blue wrapper. “What kind is this?”

  “It’s called Rosebud.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “this is the soap the killer smelled like.”

  “You can go,” Sheriff Brown said to Henry Wilkins and Amanda Kyle.

  “Come on, Henry,” Amanda said, “before they change their mind.”

  Wilkins started to close his case, then stopped.

  “What about my soap?” he asked.

  “We need this bar as evidence,” Brown said.

  “It’s a nickel,” Wilkins said.

  “Are you kiddin’?” Ott asked.

  “No,” Wilkins said.

  “Mr. Wilkins—” Brown started.

  “Never mind,” Clint said. “I’ll give him the nickel.”

  “A nickel for soap?” Ott demanded.

  “You kept me here ’til after dark,” Wilkins said. “I can’t make any more sales today.”

  “Here you go,” Clint said, handing over a nickel. Then something occurred to me. “Say, Wilkins, do you remember how many bars of this soap you sold?”

  “I can look,” Wilkins said. “I know how many we had when we got here.”

  “Would you do that, please?” Clint asked.

  Amanda was waiting impatiently by the door.

  Wilkins looked into his case, started counting.

  “Four,” he said. “Looks like I sold four.”

  “That’s all?” Brown asked.

  “Sold more Lilac than anything else,” the drummer said. “Also the Springtime scent.”

  “Did you sell the four bars to four different women?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I do,” Amanda said from the door.

  “You do?” Wilkins asked.

  She nodded.

  “Sold all four to the same woman,” she said. “She bought one bar when we first got to town, then bought three more just today.”

  “When?” Clint asked.

  “Well,” Amanda said, “she was there when you came and got us.”

  “In that band of women?” Clint asked.

  Amanda nodded.

  “Do you remember what she looked like?”

  “Real pretty,” Amanda said, “tall, blond, and . . . oh, she was wearing a gun and holster.”

  “A woman wearing a gun?” Wilkins asked. “Hey, yeah, I remember her now.”

  Clint looked at Sheriff Brown.

  “You know a woman like that in town? P
retty blonde who wears a gun?”

  “Gotta be Stephanie,” Brown said. “Stephanie Kitten.”

  “Kitten?” Amanda asked with a grin. “Is that really her last name?”

  “That’s it,” Brown said.

  “Where does she live?” Clint asked.

  “Used to live in a small house outside of town,” Brown said.

  “She work with anybody?” Clint asked. “A man?”

  “Two men,” Brown said. “Fella she grew up with, Tony Black, and a friend of theirs, Andy Choate.”

  “Do you know where they live now?”

  “No,” Brown said, “but Choate’s mother owns a small, run-down café.”

  “Well then,” Clint said, “maybe we should go and get something to eat.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sheriff Brown showed Clint the way to Mary Choate’s café, which had no name on the window or above the door. Like he said, it was a run-down café in a falling-down part of town. As they entered, there were a few people there. Clint doubted the place was ever overcrowded.

  “Let’s have a seat,” Clint suggested.

  “Don’t order a meal,” Brown warned. “Mary’s not a very good cook, but she’s a helluva baker. Have a piece of pie if you want something.”

  “I just might do that.”

  A woman came out of the kitchen, carrying two plates. She was a washed-out middle-aged woman with dark hair that was shot with gray. She set the two plates down on a table, then spotted the sheriff.

  “Well, well,” she said, coming over, “local law come to call. Who’s your handsome friend?”

  “This is Clint Adams,” Brown said. “I told him what a baker you are and he decided he wanted a piece of pie.”

  “Ah.” She looked at Clint. “Rhubarb or apple?”

  “No peach?”

  “Not today.”

  “Apple, then,” he said. “Never rhubarb.”

  “Rhubarb’s had its day,” she said. “Folks just don’t like it anymore. Well, comin’ up. Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you, Sheriff?”

  “I’ll have the rhubarb, Mary.”

  “Attaboy,” she said, and hurried to the kitchen.

  “Seems like you know her pretty well,” Clint said. “Not the boy? Andy?”

  “No,” Brown said, “I never got to know Andy.”